Moments of the Between
by Malaia
Summary: Neria Surana is lost, without purpose - until someone gives her hope and clarity.
1. Chapter 1

In the predawn hours, when the world is awash in onyx and silver, the shadows swallow me and I bathe in their shroud. The wind is an unconstrained child twisting my cloak up and pulling at my braids. My gaze is deliberating the murky depths at the bottom of the castle battlements upon which I stand. If the Maker exists, I wonder if my spirit is too vile for even his forgiveness. It's an important question to ponder at this moment.

My name is Neria Surana, my tale is about to begin anew, or end in the black pit below my feet.

My eyes are pulled upwards, drawn to the luminous tower. It's hundreds of miles away, but it looms close enough in my mind to block out the moon and stars. Its windows open in a succession of shattered glass, and I imagine voices wailing in agony. Their cries release in smoky fingers that find perch in the broken crevices of my heart, and squeeze the air from my chest. My lungs cough up a sob.

Once, not long ago, a spirit named herself Sorrow. Her words are a soft repeated whisper of rebuke in moments like these, when I feel the pull of death. If she is Sorrow, I am the product of her rutting with Fury.

There was a time when betrayal, murder, demons and such were only found in books, and then spoken about in awe-filled whispers to my best friend. My only friend, really. But Jowan and I learned of betrayal first hand, his betrayal of me, and my repayment in kind. I wonder, for the thousandth time, if my betrayal ended in his death, or if he is somewhere in that luminous tower, a man without a soul, checking inventory in stoic silence - living and breathing, but not _being_. My regret would only be his death, for I would envy the peace of dreamless nights and emotionless days that comes with being made tranquil.

Betrayer. Words should sound as bleak as their meaning. Treacherous is the better word. It forms with a bite of the teeth and a twist of the mouth. "I am Treachery, daughter of Sorrow and Fury." I shout into the wind. I laugh, a soft sweet musical sound, and that too is lost in a blast of frenzied air. The incongruous, delicate sound that spills forth from my black soul draws even more laughter.

"Come down from there child."

Wynne.

My back straightens at the gentle order. It is _my_ voice who commands, not hers. "Not anymore," a voice whispers in my head. The blight is over and she is free of my control. Another laugh escapes at the thought of mage with moments tick by. I look down into the dark, it beckons.

"What has happened to him, Wynne?"

"I will not have a discussion with you teetering on that ledge, laughing like a lunatic."

I turn to see the worry in her eyes, her strong hands point at the ground. Grudgingly, I step down from the ledge.

I am immediately enveloped in the warmth of her embrace. Wynne's soft hands stroke my hair and I sigh with resignation.

As the dawn thrusts the shadows into the earth, the sun infuses my body with a second warm swathe.

My story has ended.

My story begins.


	2. Chapter 2

The banquet hall is decorated with my friends - my family really. I feel a prick at my conscience as it dawns on me exactly how many people might have been distraught if my step had been off the other side of the battlements. Shame, even in small amounts, is fleeting. There is too much devastation to my spirit to hold much else. One life or another has been in my hands during the last three years, with the exclusion of my own. My life has belonged to Ferelden - until now.

I smile and sit next to Alistair, the king. I laugh heartily at his ridiculous jokes, and we both pretend I didn't betray him. I bandy words with noblemen, and smile softly at Leliana's songs. I sing bawdy tunes with Oghren, and raise my cups with gusto. My eyes find each guest's and crinkle. See my smile? I'm happy! Listen to my laugh. Everything is perfect. They return my smiles. Inside, the voices scream and claw and scrape at my skull.

When my eyes meet _his_, his smile disappears. His head tilts, his eyes squint in study - I feel stripped of my disguise. My heart jumps, and I force my smile into my eyes until my cheeks hurt and apprehension brings a flush to my skin. His smile returns, but it is sad, full of pity. I turn away and smash my mug against Oghren's. Perfect. Everything is perfect. Can't you see?

The grief is overflowing and my smile is becoming brittle, agonizing. Before my disguise can fail, before I can break into a heaping sobbing mess on the floor, I flee to the patio in a trail of excuses and false laughter.

I run with abandon, heedless of the sweat sticking the white silk dress to my body. I leave the stone walkway behind me and glide through the grass. My hair escapes the confines of pins that Leliana spent hours painstakingly folding into my scalp. When I finally stop, greedily gulping at the air, my hair looks as though Leliana had forgotten the left side of my head in her hairstyling. I bend over, coughing and spitting, before straightening and coming face to face with him.

Unlike me, he is a warrior, and this short burst across the grass behind the castle is no strain on his stamina. He is barely out of breath and I want to scowl in envy. Like always he is the considerate noble man, politely turning away when I hold up my hand warding him off. Dry heaves wrack my body as I'm forced to bend in half once more. I'm thankful I skipped food and drink.

"Go away." I manage to cough out at his back.

"I…"

"Go away!" I repeat stronger, finally able to stand upright. I unnecessarily swipe my dry lips with the back of my hand and glare at his back. I'm being cruel, and it's not lost on me that my irritation is directed at one of the few humans who have been kind to me. This one, especially, had reason to want my death, yet he's nothing but compassionate. For some odd reason his gentleness stokes my rage.

"Very few women can manage to look beautiful when heaving up their dinner."

I fumed silently even as my lips twitched. "Very few men find women attractive in that situation." I bit back."And I did not heave up my dinner!"

"Perhaps it was just the position required for the act that I found tantalizing, then." His voice is teasing and I could hear the smile formed on his lips.

I choke back laughter, and a little shock, at his humor. He'd always been so reserved in our discussions, gentlemanly. The suspicious part of my mind asks if he suddenly feels free to speak to me thus because of my position and race. A mage, and an elf, demands little respect with humans. Another part of my brain wants the butterflies in my stomach to burst into flight again. "Well, Bann Teagan, if I knew _that_ interested you, I would have wiggled."

He sputters with laughter and some of the tension releases from my shoulders. Turning to face me, he shakes his head, amusement evident in his eyes. "You're never one to mince words."

"And you often are." I shoot back and raise an eyebrow. "Which makes me wonder why the sudden change? Finally figure out I'm an elf?" I could have kicked myself when his smile slips.

"Forgive me? I never mean to give you that impression." His expression is guarded, but a soft smile still plays on his lips.

There's a moment of silence and melancholy grips my heart. The well of sadness is full again and it pours into my bloodstream. I'm desperate to forget, desperate to stop the rushing tide of grief coursing through me like a raging river.

His expression shifts again. He tilts his head and looks at me curiously. I step closer and pull his mouth down to mine. He gasps against my lips and my tongue seizes the opportunity to delve into his warmth. He hesitates, and then opens tentatively to my intrusion, his hands circle my waist, splaying against my back. I drink in the taste of ale and sugared desserts. My hands clutch at his collar pulling him closer. He moans and my blood burns a fiery trail to my belly where it blazes brightly. His fingers clench the fabric at the back of my dress.

My hands move to his trousers and unlace them. His breath hitches as my fist encloses his hard flesh, my thumb softly grazing the tip. He drives his hand through my hair and the other cups my cheek. His tongue demands and gains entrance to my mouth as his hips press into my hand.

I'm lost in the sweet glow of lust, floating in a spiral towards heaven. Nothing matters but the warmth of his tongue, his beautiful gasps as I stroke his flesh, his heady wood-scented skin filling my nostrils.

His lips find my neck, nip the delicate skin and I sigh with pleasure. He slides silk off my shoulder and kisses the exposed skin tenderly. Something dark and needy claws inside my core, and I push my other hand under his tunic, scratching down his belly. His mouth moves down my chest, pushing down my gown further. I arch against his lips as they find the hard peaks of my breast, a husky cry pushes out of my throat and disappears into the night.

"Dear Maker, Neria. Tell me to stop." His frantic whisper sends shivers down my spine and my hand squeezes him in response. I no longer care for my own release; I want nothing more than to feel his loss of control at my hands. I halt my strokes and drag his face from my breast. When his eyes find mine, my hand resumes its caress.

"No!" I growl as his head moves in for a kiss. He looks at me in question and I squeeze and stroke faster. His lids fight to stay open with every blink. I'm mesmerized by the command my fingers have on his body. He moans, gasps and tenses at each stroke and twist. I work his flesh faster, biting my lip and examining every expression flit over his face. The fire in my belly is stoked to a blistering flame as his teeth clench and his fingers clutch my hair. A cry wrenches from him as he stills and then he's bursting onto my hands and dress in a shuddering, final buck of his hips.

I stand there, fascinated; the sound of my own heavy breathing reaching my ears. I smell the musky sent of his seed on my dress and feel its soft sticky texture on my fingers. I lift it to my lips and his eyes open just as my tongue flicks out and licks.

His breathing, which subsided into normalcy, hisses out. I want to test him, this sweet noble man, push his boundaries. I suck the entire length of my finger, and taste the salty flavor of him. As his eyes widen and breath quickens, I press my lips against his once again gripping his lip in my teeth, gently. His hesitancy is evident, but fleeting. When his mouth opens and I feel his tongue dance against mine I pull out of the kiss, triumphant.

His eyes seek mine, searching for understanding. I smile darkly and whisper, "To see if you would."

I turn and laugh, running back to my rooms, the exhilarating feel of power still surging through my body.


	3. Chapter 3

The mirror looms across the room. It both beckons and terrifies me. One shiny, cold, glass surface the size of a serving platter holds a vast reservoir of painful reminders. I had come into my room with light feet and a smiling face. My eyes are wide now, wary. I need to look, to remind myself, to plant my feet back into reality.

In the tower I had spent hours in front of the mirror. I was lost in adolescent vanity - painting my face, practicing coy expressions, discerning which smile suited me. I once brushed my raven hair into curls and then braided beautiful ribbons in its depths. Such pride and fancy at the smallest things – a soft perfume, a pink flower to tuck behind my ear. Those are the things I'd like to remember. The mirror, doesn't reflect memories, however.

My breath holds in my throat and I step in front. My eyes immediately dart to my hair. It's much longer now, nearly to the middle of my back – so heavy the curls are only subtle waves. If I could turn to the side and gaze into the mirror, that is what I would do, but the mirror is a prankster and it flashes my face into my eyes before I can look away – and then I'm transfixed.

The scar is what draws my eyes first, though maybe the eye might draw a casual observer. The _scar_ starts at my hairline and slashes over my eyebrow. It is not dainty and thin or barely noticeable, though perhaps in a few years time it might be. It's red and angry and wide as my finger. Acid burns are not as beautiful as a knife wound, though I suppose those aren't beautiful either, they wrinkle and pucker the skin in fascinating colors of pink and red.

The eye is as clear as crisp mountain water. It does not, however match the lovely shade of blue in my other eye. Thank you, dear Emissary, for this interesting variation on normal.

For years my beauty had been remarked upon, a weapon wielded when necessary or a crutch to lean on when options ran dry. Without it I feel half alive. Perhaps that is vanity, perhaps practicality. I'm a mage, but more than that I'm an elf – the race renowned for their beauty. What I have left of myself, after the Blight took everything else, is my magic. My soul, my home, my friends and even my face are all different now.

The old me screams and rages inside, she beats at my face and body. She howls in dark, secret places in my soul which are filling with sadness and drowning her. I try tamp her down but she escapes and slips into my skin. She's the beautiful, raven haired elf with the perfect face, flirting and enticing. She forgets the scar and the eye - like tonight with the Bann.

My hands touch my stained dress and then clench the fabric. I turn away from the mirror before the tears fall.

Teagan. I close my eyes and I see him just standing there and he's looking at me smiling, teasing - flirting. And for the moment I see myself reflected in his eyes - the beautiful, golden girl he met so many months ago. I do not see pity or the usual evading gaze. He had looked _at_ me and I had just wanted that moment of utter enrapture – that sweet feeling of being admired and treasured. Such a silly girl – but at least I lived in that one moment.

* * *

Alistair is speaking. I laugh when he laughs and I nod politely during requisite pauses, but I follow Teagan out of the corner of my eye as he speaks to Ser Cauthrien. The woman laughs - a hearty sound - and my eyes narrow as her hand touches his shoulder. He returns her laughter and scans the room briefly. His smile grows wider when he meets my eyes. I quickly turn my attention back to Alistair.

"Soo then you'll leave tomorrow?" Alistair is smiling expectantly. I blink and try to recall the conversation and where I've obviously agreed to go.

"Um…well tomorrow seems a bit soon…" What in Andraste's name had I gotten myself into?

"Bloody marvelous! You'll need an escort and I suppose the elf is going with you?" He nods at Zevran. "And I'll make sure you have the- ...you've no idea what I'm talking about do you?"

I wince and shake my head with wide eyes and a small shrug.

"Waisshaupt…recruiting! The Orlesians will be here to take over the order soon."

Ah. It seems I am once again thrust into duty and my life is no longer my own. "Yes majesty." I murmur adjusting the belt of my gown. It seems I'll never have the chance to get used to wearing fine dresses.

"Hey. I did offer you a position here you know. That is still open."

I looked at Teagan and softened a little. It would be so easy to give in. I'd have a title. A mage with a title. A chance to prove we have value. I had thought about this already. A title brings respect, but it also brings scrutiny. One slip and mages everywhere would feel the sharp end of Templar's blades - a public affirmation of the Chantry's doctrine and a claim of power over mages again. I would _never _give them that.

My voice is soft and assured. "No, I've said I wanted to rebuild, and I do. I just thought I'd have more time is all."

"It's been a month - and I would give you a year even - but the Orlesians come and unless you take the initiative, they will take over the order here."

I want nothing more than to say, "then let them have it!", but Alistair's claim on the throne was tenuous and there were plenty willing to bring him down. The Orlesians settling into the Grey Warden order in Ferelden would be the first nail in his coffin. "You're right of course. I'll leave tomorrow. I've a mind to visit Highever, Duncan mentioned a young man there..."

"No need, Teagan has suggested his bann, Rainesfere."

"Has he now?" I turn my head to the Bann, cocking an eyebrow. Teagan is still engrossed in conversation with Ser Cauthrien.

"Um… I'm not going to ask." Alistair murmurs and I turn to see him looking at me curiously.

I laugh softly. "You needn't worry, Alistair. I know my place." My hand unconsciously touches the scar on my forehead.

Alistair's face darkens. "Don't start that nonsense again. That particular pity-party has dispersed."

I nod, and bow slightly, amused. "You're correct, I apologize. It's still all new to me – this feeling of freedom - of a road ahead – it's made me maudlin"

"Well, at least we still _have _purpose." He's smiling and I relax my tense shoulders. "Another grand adventure, but with decidedly more cheese and less darkspawn!"

I laugh again and my body feels a little more whole. I press my forehead against the king's chest and wrap my arms around his waist. He's the king, but he doesn't hesitate – he's my dearest friend and if that looks a little strange to our company, darkspawn take them all. "I shall leave tomorrow then, but I will miss you _and_ your smelly cheese."

He pulls back and looks into my eyes and then brushes his lips over my scar. I know in this instant he has forgiven my betrayal. And once again we are brothers in arms, friends in honor and conspirators in silence.


End file.
